


Unexpected and Amusing Things

by WearyBlues



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, M/M, Slow Burn, Slow On The Uptake Really, Snapshots, They Get It Together Eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 14:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16064810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WearyBlues/pseuds/WearyBlues
Summary: Manhood was never easy for Meyer.Snapshots of his life, starting at seventeen.





	Unexpected and Amusing Things

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't written fanfic in damn near a year it feels like, so I figured my first move would be writing about secondary characters from a near-dead fandom. 
> 
> Dunno how many chapters this will end up having, but I'll be working with three ages at a time up until I feel done with the damn thing. Probably three chapters at most.
> 
> Full disclosure, I don't remember all the details of the show so if I make any goofs you'll just have to bear with me. 
> 
> Drop me a comment if you have anything to say about the story!

Meyer has been looking over the gambling numbers for long enough they’ve started to blur together, illegible and unimportant. Beyond the thin walls of the apartment, a baby stubbornly wails, followed like clockwork by the belligerent shouts of an upstairs neighbor. 

Stretched out like a cat over the cramped couch, Benny is wrapped up in spare blankets, his boot-clad feet hanging over the arm. Benny twitches in his sleep, Meyer notes, squirrelly as ever, limbs jerking in a facsimile of fight. All evening Benny had been bragging about his new piece, a silver flashy thing he keeps tucked in the front of his trousers. According to Charlie, if he keeps leaving it holstered like that he’ll shoot his dick off. Meyer is inclined to agree. 

But asleep at last, Benny is quiet.

Meyer sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. He thinks of Charlie, no doubt enjoying congress with any number of women. He’s easy like that, all boyish charm, the kind that girls go weak at the knees over. It makes Meyer smile, that easy way Charlie has, the sheen of his hair and the dark pools of his eyes. With that on his mind, the baby’s wail kicks up to a fever pitch, a warbling crescendo that crashes over Meyer’s headache like the ice-cold waves of the bay. 

Outside is an inky blackness punctuated by the dim glow of street lamps. The dirty film of grey slush makes the streets glisten. Meyer is sixteen. He shaves. He works, makes money. And with A.R.’s direction, he buys elegant suits fit for a king. He feels so goddamn old it makes his bones ache. 

The baby has stopped crying, minutes ago, hours ago. The words on the page have lost all meaning altogether. Meyer’s head pounds, inky blackness spreading over the room and under his eyelids. 

He wakes in bed. Meyer is alone, but the pack of cigarettes he keeps on his nightstand is gone. In its place is a candy bar, half-eaten. At first Meyer thinks it’s Benny, perpetually too lazy to get his own damn cigarettes, but then he hears the tell-tale rattling of the fire escape. As if on cue, the window to Meyer’s bedroom is forced open, letting in a swell of chilled air. 

Charlie, pale, snow-dusted, and grinning, drops down from the window ledge.

“Meyer.” Charlie greets, voice rough from the dry winter air. 

“Charlie.” Meyer returns dryly, already cracking the remainder of the candy bar into pieces. Charlie flops down on the bed next to him, snatches the bar away and pops a piece into his mouth. 

Meyer sighs, rubs a section of the coarse sheets between his fingers. Charlie regards him coolly for a moment, sucking on the piece of chocolate, then casually presses his freezing fingers to the delicate skin of Meyer’s neck. 

Meyer knocks him to the floor, face red, as Charlie chokes on laughter. He’s handsome like this, Meyer thinks, hair disheveled and eyes filled with mirth. So he sits on the floor with Charlie, wood boards digging into his bony ass. Charlie slings an arm around him and lights a cigarette. The cherry tip of it scatters ash in the grain of the floorboards. 

They stay like that through most of the early morning as Charlie smokes through Meyer’s pack. Apparently, Charlie had found Meyer a little past four, slumped over the kitchen table and drooling all over A.R.’s meticulous records. Charlie had slung him over a shoulder, dropped him carelessly in bed.

“Little jew boy, you weigh next to nothing. You sure your mama’s gettin’ you enough to eat?” Charlie had teased, facing cracking open in a wide mocking grin.

Back in the living room, Benny huffed irritably in his sleep. 

 

 

Meyer is seventeen and hasn’t lost his virginity. This fact is something Charlie has fixated on, picked apart over breakfast, dinner, supper. Benny, the little shit, thinks it’s hilarious. 

At fourteen, Benny has already done more than most, leering at women on the street and shuffling his pack of french playing cards. Each card is adorned with a different naked woman, their rosy naked limbs twisted in alluring positions. Charlie gave him the cards, a birthday gift, along with a pack of cigarettes and 10 dollars for him to waste away on sweets and booze. 

Meyer had gotten Benny a pocket-watch and a book on aviation. Meyer never quite figured out if Benny could read, never seemed polite to ask. But seeing the half-burnt pages crumpled up in the fireplace as kindling, Meyer would be inclined toward the negative.

That isn’t to say Meyer doesn’t likes women, girls. He likes their shape and the kindness in their eyes. And he has been with girls before. Kissed them. Touched them. Had their various perfumes, clinging to the soft waves of their hair, fill his lungs. 

Nora, dark-eyed and quiet, had hugged Meyer to her body and kissed his jaw so delicately it made his heart pound. He let his hands smooth over the curve of her back, over the swell of her exposed breasts. She smiled softly into the skin of his jugular, the press of her lips too hot all at once. After, Meyer made her hot tea and they listened to the quiet chatter of the radio together. Last Meyer heard, she had gotten married to the son of a deli owner, a handsome, sturdy man of twenty.

But he hasn’t been all the way with a woman, whatever that means to Charlie, so it doesn’t count. This fact seems to translate to endless pestering, him and Benny ribbing Meyer enough to make even his firm composure crack. 

Charlie still insists on dragging him to every cathouse in New York. The women all coo over his baby-face, calling him “cute”. One woman, plump and Hungarian, tells Meyer he reminds her of her son. That makes him cringe, so he leaves Charlie to it, walks up and down the block and breathes deep.

The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Eventually, Charlie stops pushing him. They start spending their Friday nights together again. Picture shows, casinos, Charlie always insists on paying. Sometimes they bring Benny along, watching him blow out huge mouthfuls of smoke as he bitches about A.R., Charlie, or Meyer himself.

As though nothing had happened, they’re good again. 

 

 

Meyer is eighteen and shaking apart. His hands won’t stop trembling, that desperate animal part of him stretched thin. He rides the train back to New York, eyes glassy and heart banging against his ribs. The other passengers glance at him worriedly, but Meyer thinks of nothing but _Charlie Charlie Benny Benny A.R. A.R._ until the rolling hills outside the window start to feel familiar.

Kneeling on the concrete, he had felt like a boy. Dressed up in his father’s suit, playing pretend with the ugliness of it all making him wish for the embrace of his mother. And isn’t that what the men returning from the war said? Hard men, like Darmody, delirious with pain and begging for their mothers. 

In that moment, Meyer is almost ashamed of how little he thinks of his mother anymore. Thinks of his father. Thinks of his brother. He’s always too busy. Busy with dirty money, gambling, booze, heroin. He leans into the purpose it gives him. Money appears as if heaven-sent, paying for luxuries he as a child had only dreamt of.

Then he is on Charlie’s front stoop. At once it is dark, the street desolate. Meyer slams his open palm on the door, his fingers refuse to cooperate enough to form a proper fist. He is still slamming on the wood of the door when it is thrown open, then Charlie, bow tie undone and eyes angry, stands before him. 

Vaguely, Meyer is aware of Charlie’s voice, gravelly with fury, of Charlie gripping him too hard around the upper arm, of Charlie trying to get Meyer to meet his eye. Meyer is led inside, dumb with shock and legs numb. If Meyer concentrates, he can feel the burn of blisters at the joints of his feet inside his polished black shoes. 

He is pushed into a seated position on Charlie’s couch. Charlie is shaking him roughly, cigarette dangling from his lips and smoke billowing from his nostrils. Feverish, Meyer thinks about the inside of Charlie’s mouth. His own mouth is gummy and bitter-tasting, his hands are slick with sweat. 

Charlie brings him coffee, too strong for the late hour of the night, and tucks Meyer into his side as if he were a child. Meyer feels small like this, cradled to Charlie’s body, all awkward edges and adolescent misproportion. 

After a while, the crying comes easy. Sobs work themselves out of Meyer’s chest, tearing up his insides as the claw out of his mouth. Again, he is shaking so bad it makes his whole body ache, the vague timber of Charlie’s voice easing along his tensed muscles. 

Meyer sleeps eventually, knees drawn up and filth-caked shoes tracking mud all over Charlie’s couch. When he wakes, Charlie is gone, but not far. In the kitchen, Charlie makes eggs, toast. Meyer eats obediently, aware of Charlie’s eyes following his every move. 

He knows he’ll have to talk to A.R. eventually, the thought of him some looming specter complete with impeccably coiffed hair and shrewd yet fathomless eyes. 

But right now, crumpled on one of the mismatched chairs in Charlie’s kitchen, chewing listlessly on stale challah, the tremors calm. 

When Meyer finishes, Charlie stands up abruptly. He moves to stand rigid next to Meyer’s chair, grips his shoulder like a vice.

“Thompson?” Charlie asks, voice deadly serious.

Meyer nods mutely, food turned to ash in his mouth. 

Charlie bobs his head, clears his throat. He seems at a loss for what to say, what to do. Meyer lets his shoulders loosen under Charlie’s grasp. 

Later, after laying out all the shit for A.R., the D’Alessio’s corpses still cooling, Meyer is laid out on his back in Charlie’s bed. Meyer is the one smoking for once, blowing smoke rings and watching them dissipate as they float toward the peeling ceiling. 

Charlie lays next to him, pressed together at the hip, Charlie’s arm flopped across Meyer’s stomach. Charlie’s clever fingers play idly with the buttons of Meyer’s shirt. Charlie doesn’t make him talk, rather, Charlie fills the air with his own words. Bullshit stories, stupid jokes. Some even make Meyer laugh, have him letting out a surprised snort that makes Charlie grin victoriously. 

They lay like that for hours, and gradually the knot in Meyer’s stomach loosens. As the light from the window fades, Meyer curls closer to Charlie, tucking himself tight under Charlie’s chin, letting his rasping breath fan over Charlie’s collar bone. Charlie holds him and, G-d, it makes his heart hurt. 

“Gonna kill that old fuck.” Charlie promises, and it makes Meyer smile, that unshakable loyalty. Gripped tight to Charlie’s chest, Meyer falls into a fitful sleep.


End file.
